


Too Much Love Will Kill You Every Time

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: A bottle of vodka sat up, it’s clear liquid sloshing within it. A beacon of hope for those needing numbing. He poured a shot into the glass he had besides it and downed it, followed by another shot for safe measure. Remembering nowadays was something he liked to avoid.Besides the bottle was a small square mirror with the thing that brought him back up from the low the alcohol gave him, spread neatly on it. He counted three lines of blow left. He hoped that would last him until he fell asleep.





	Too Much Love Will Kill You Every Time

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where this came from.  
> UHHHH  
> My blogs on tumblr are InHopeIBreathe and Disabled-Queen-HC

John leaned against the balcony, taking a deep drag of his cigarette as he stared into the darkness of his backyard. He swayed with the breeze, using his free hand to hold onto the rail, the vodka in his system making him unsteady. If he wasn’t careful, he could fall. Down and down and down, tumbling into the night, getting lost in the void forever.

He closed his eyes, wobbling a bit when his heart sped up at the thought. It sounded nice, really. To disappear into the blackness. To stop existing. To blip out of this world and into emptiness. John brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling and holding the smoke in his body until his throat burned and his lungs panicked. He let it all out in one long sigh. His forehead pressed against the cold railing, his mind going through many thoughts.

It could be an accident, and no one would be the wiser. Drunk and high, Queen bassist John Deacon takes an accidental fall over the railing in his house, resulting in his death. No one would lament over their inaction. No one would cry over not knowing he felt like this. They’d simply curse fate and the odds and move on.

Another sharp breeze rustled through his hair and clothes, his eyes snapping open. Was this what he had come to? Contemplating suicide? Was his life that bad?

His life…no it wasn’t bad. Not until recently. An image of lace flashed through his head, his stomach dropping at the sight. Quickly, he flung his cigarette over the railing, not caring to put it out first. It was damp outside. He walked back indoors, into his room and knelt by the ottoman which held the things he liked to call his anesthetics.

A bottle of vodka sat up, it’s clear liquid sloshing within it. A beacon of hope for those needing numbing. He poured a shot into the glass he had besides it and downed it, followed by another shot for safe measure. Remembering nowadays was something he liked to avoid.

Besides the bottle was a small square mirror with the thing that brought him back up from the low the alcohol gave him, spread neatly on it. He counted three lines of blow left. He hoped that would last him until he fell asleep.

Without hesitation, he pressed a finger to one nostril before bringing his nose to the mirror, inhaling the rail, never coughing or gagging. John was used to this. A frequent user of snow.

He leaned back on his heels as the world began to spin. Feelings of betrayal, dread, and anxiety dissolved giving way to relaxation, happiness and confidence. He felt light and airy. Utterly free. He could float away at any moment. He felt good. John felt good.

John got up and stumbled into his bed. He didn’t want to do anything besides _feel_. On these lonely binges, he’d usually dance or listen to music or watch TV, but right now, he wanted to live in these emotions. Maybe if he let them settle into his bones, he could push out the ones that made him use in the first place.

The king-sized bed was plush under him, nearly engulfing him in a warm embrace. The sheets, a fine silk, a fabric he never thought he could afford in his life, felt cool on his skin, He brought the comforter up to his aching nose and breathed in the scents.

Cologne, himself and Roger.

He could smell Roger on these sheets.

A small smile tickled at his lips as he thought of his lover. _Roger_. He remembered when he first realized he was crushing hard on the drummer. He was so scared, always having thought of himself as straight. But every time he saw that blond mucking about, his heart sang, his cheeks flushed. It was a crush whether he wanted to admit it or not. But John wanted to keep it a secret. He figured Roger actually was straight and he’d ruin the whole band’s dynamic with a confession. He prayed for his crush to go away. For it to be nothing more than a little crush that would pass in a months’ time. It never did. 

And thank god it didn’t.

It seemed like out of nowhere, in the middle of a long recording session, Roger had enough of the games. He pushed John up against a wall and kissed him. _Kissed him_! And John kissed back. And by god was that a fantastic kiss. There were sparks, real sparks, exploding in their cores, a sign that they were truly meant to be together. A demonstration of their chemistry.

If you asked anyone, it did seem like that. That they were two souls made up of the very same thing. Their connection was astounding to watch. The synchronicity in their movements in thoughts. John and Roger always understood each other with no struggle. In fights, in their taste in cars, in their rhythms. The were practically one person, fused at the hip. For such a long time it was like that. They orbited each other, always laughing, smiling, kissing, giggling, talking and fucking like rabbits. It was love. Maybe a little unconventional by some standards, but it was love.

John sighed, ripples of joy wracking through him.

 _Love_.

Roger loved hard. Intensely. Sometimes he smothered you with it. He wasn’t one to say the word, preferring to show it through his actions. He thought of you, bringing you gifts from wherever he was. He’d help you without you needing to ask. He’d have a hand always on you, showing others that you were his. He’d worship your body until he left you limp. It was so much. Always so much. He’d drown you in it, but John wanted that. To be so filled up with _his_ love. Even if it hurt.

John pressed a hand against his stomach and pushed. He felt hollow now. Drained. Dry. Sometimes he wondered if it was his fault. He wasn’t enough for Roger. His safe and simple ways of loving weren’t enough. Was not bending over for Roger in dressing rooms why? Not pushing the car to 100 on the highway with Roger in the passenger seat why? Was-

He stopped his train of thought, getting up and kneeling again. He was doing it again. He was remembering.

One shot. One line. Another shot. A lit cigarette.

John’s nerves were sparkling. He felt so light. Like he could jump off the railing and fly away. He felt so good. So good. So good. So good.

He wanted to feel good. Forever and ever and ever. He leaned down over the mirror, craving another hit. John wanted to be on top of the world.

“What the fuck is this?” A voice growled.

John fell back on his butt, droopy eyes blinking slowly as he looked at who had just ruined his bender. Squinting, he could make out a tall figure in green. Yellow messy hair.

“John, what **_is_** this shit?” Roger yelled, walking further into their room.

John didn’t feel scared. He was invincible right now. He blinked some more, taking a puff of his cigarette.

Roger was red in the face, stomping up to John. “You’re too fucking high, aren’t you?” he said, ripping the cigarette from John’s hand, stamping it out of the ash tray. John didn’t fight it, instead saying, “Yes,” before bursting out into laughter.

Roger hissed at John, who found this whole situation so funny. He marched across the room, closing the doors to the balcony. The room was frigid. He went back to the ottoman and started cleaning up.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” John slurred, his movements uncoordinated as he tried to grab his vodka bottle back.

“Cleaning up this fucking mess you’ve made. Turned our bedroom into a goddamn drug den,” Roger said, pushing a weak John off of him. John whined when he fell into the carpet but sat back up with a frown.

“You get to have all the fun, but when I do it, it’s bad, huh? Why’s that?” John asked, head lolling from side to side, all his muscles loose.

“Fun? You call this fun? Snorting coke in our house? John, you’ve been high and drunk constantly for weeks now. This isn’t fucking fun! This is a problem and I’m done coddling it!” Roger spat, setting the vodka bottle and shot glass on top of the wardrobe, planning on dealing with it later.

“’S not a problem,” John said, trying to stand up, but his knees kept giving out.

“It is. And I’m fucking tired of it. Stay on the floor. I’ll pick you up once I’m done,” Roger said firmly, getting the mirror and walking to the bathroom, intending on dumping the coke into the toilet.

John sat criss cross, swaying as he said, “I’m fucking tired of _you_ ,”

Roger snorted, an angry humorless snort, the sound of the toilet flushing echoing through the room. “Funnily enough, John, I can tell you are. You’d rather nurse a martini than even look at me. What’s up with that, huh? You drinking ‘cuz of me? ‘Cuz I’m busy with the Cross and not spending time with you? Is this how you show me that?”

Roger went over to John and grabbed him by the wrists, lifting him up harshly and throwing him onto the bed. It hurt.

“What is it, John? Why are you doing this? If you tell me, I can help. But I can’t do shit if you keep ignoring me, getting high off your ass all the goddamn time!” he yelled.

John’s face was wet, and he didn’t notice until he touched it. He tried to sit up, but the silk was too slippery. He settled for splaying out on the bed, looking up at the ceiling instead. He sniffled, his heart quivering.

“What? What is it?” Roger screamed, his infamous anger issues rearing its ugly head.

Quietly, almost quiet enough for Roger not to hear it, John asked, “Was I not good enough?”

Roger shook his head, confused. “What?”

“Me. Was I not good enough?”

“What are you on, John?”

“You,” John said, propping himself up on his shoulders. “You haven’t touched me in months.”

Roger reeled, eyes wide. “Is this what’s the issue? Sex? Because we can fuck if you’re so bloody needy!”

John shook his head, wiping his eyes clean. “Is it because she’s better than me?” he asked, his mind suddenly a lot more sober.

Roger shrunk, faltering. “W-Who?” he stuttered, looking John up and down with an anxiety he didn’t have moments ago.

“Her,” John said simply, letting himself slide off the bed. He ducked under the bed and pulled out a box. He opened it and held up a pair of lacy pink underwear. Women’s underwear. After a moment, he tossed it at Roger’s feet.

Roger spluttered, mouth agape, hands moving frantically. “J-John, no, it’s **_not_** what it looks like.”

“You don’t even kiss me in the mornings, you know. Not anymore. I don’t think you’re just fucking her. Right, Rog? You love her. You’re filling her up with all that love that should be _mine_. You don’t even have enough left over for me,” John said, looking down at his lap as his voice cracked, cheeks streaming with tears.

♚

John came home from the music store. The house was quiet. Roger was in the shower. It seemed like a normal situation to come back to. But it wasn’t normal. Their bedroom was immaculate. Neither of them were all that tidy. So why was the bed made? And bedsheets changed when John had changed them only two days ago?

He wouldn’t be so suspicious if the room weren’t so hot and musty. Even with the balcony doors opened, it smelled like sex. John looked around the room, praying he was wrong. Praying he’d find proof of his inaccuracy before Roger got out of them shower.

He had to hold back the urge to puke when he found it. Just barely concealed by the bed skirt. A pair of pink panties.

They didn’t own underwear like that. That wasn’t their thing.

John steeled his nerves before hiding the underwear in a shoe box and shoved it under the bed. He’d talk about this later with Roger. Right now, he needed a drink. The stiffest he could find in their liquor cabinet.

♚

“John! John, please-“

“No! No! Roger, I gave you everything! I gave you every last bit of me! And you chewed it up and spat it out like I was nothing. I gave you my youth and my heart and my love and my body and you took advantage of that. You suffocated me with your love and snatched it away when you got bored of me. You’re worse than fucking coke because I can’t stop thinking about you even when you hurt me! I still want you! I still love you! Even after all of this. And I fucking hate you for it! So, shut up, _please_. Shut up and let me do whatever the hell I want. You can’t lecture me and tell me what’s right and wrong when you **broke** me,” John said, a vindictive finger pointed at Roger, trying his best to not sob.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that Roger was supposed to be the one.

It wasn’t fair that after all of this, he still wanted Roger to be the one.

Roger was stunned into silence, barely able to catch his breath after John’s tirade. But he was right. Every last word. And it made him feel like shit.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Roger asked as he crouched down next to John.

“ _Why didn’t you?”_ John venomously replied; his eyes dark as he stared holes into Roger’s head.

Roger gulped, nodding. That was true. Why didn’t he?

He made John an addict for his love and took it away without so much as a warning. And addicts always find another vice to leech off of when their main source runs dry. They always do.

John wiped his face off before he took off the ring from his right hand. A promise ring Roger gave him a decade or so ago. They couldn’t get married, but they could promise to always love each other, no matter what.

Promises don’t mean much when you have nothing to back it up.

John dropped his ring right on top of the lacy panty’s.

He got up, snatching the vodka bottle off the dresser and stumbled out the room.

Roger stood up too, walking after him.

“Just don’t drive, John,” was all he said.

“Of course,” John replied bitterly.

Roger watched from the top of the staircase as John walked down them and to the phone. There was a brief conversation before he walked out the door. Never looking back once.

Roger walked back into the room, seconds away from crumbling. What had he done?

He looked at the shiny silver metal shimmering on top of the pink cloth and collapsed.

♚

“Jim is so excited to have you in the house! He’s not too good with fiddling with cars but I told him you were an expert with all that stuff!” Freddie said, bubbling as him and John walked down the hallway.

John had all his belongings he acquired in rehab in a bag which he was hugging. He looked over to Freddie, apprehensive. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude…”

“John, of course you won’t! We really want you there with us. Oh my, we’ll have so much fun. We can all garden together and cook dinner and watch movies. Like a big sleep over! Doesn’t that sound fun, Deacy!” Freddie said, wiggling his fingers.

John was about to reply but they made it to the front desk of the rehab center.

“Hello, Mr. Deacon. You just need to sign these papers and you’ll be free. Have you already planned out your outpatient program?” The receptionist asked, handing John a clipboard and pen.

Freddie took them since John’s hands were full and answered for him. “Yes, he has.”

That night when John called him, a doped-up mess, begging to go to his house, was the night Freddie took over. John was like a son to him. He was going to take the wheel of this sinking ship and steer John back into clear waters. John didn’t even have a choice in the matter.

Freddie sent Jim to pick John up that very instant and he stayed up with John until sunrise as he cried his heart out, telling Freddie everything Roger had done. Everything he had done in response. He held him and kissed him and even slept next to him once John passed out from exhaustion.

The next day, John had his bags packed for rehab. Before anything could be done, he needed to be clean. Only then did Freddie deal with Roger.

The both of them agreed to not talk about that phone call.

But here John was now, 60 days sober, looking alive and happy for the first time in months. When he smiled, his eyes actually crinkled, something Freddie thought was gone forever.

“Here, darling. I’ll take your bag to the car while you sign all this stuff. Jim and I will be out front, okay?” Freddie said, exchanging the papers for John’s bag and walking out.

John sat down to initial there and sign here, his body thrumming all the while. He was finally free. And he felt good. It felt like it’s been years since he could laugh and smile without much reason, just like his old self. He was eager to get back out there and spend some time with the two people who helped him through this tirelessly. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever thank Jim and Fred for all that they’ve done. He shuddered at the thought of what would have become of him without them.

Once he finished, he handed the papers to the receptionist who gave him the okay to go home. He froze momentarily at the front doors. This was it. He had his health and freedom again. And it was all his responsibility to keep it safe. He had faith in himself to do just that.

He pushed open the doors, stepping out into the light. He expected to see Jim in the car, waving at him, but all he saw was a frazzled Freddie trying to usher him back inside.

“Maybe we should wait a minute before leaving, haha!” Freddie said nervously, trying to push him back inside.

John struggled against him, asking, “What? Why? What happened?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, let’s just-“

“Stop it, Fred!” A third voice rung out. It certainly wasn’t the Irishman.

John felt his heart stutter when his brain processed the voice.

“Roger?” he asked incredulously, wriggling himself from Freddie’s grip.

Roger stood there on the curb, looking 20 pounds lighter, well-groomed and dressed impeccably, holding a gigantic bouquet of white and yellow flowers. He looked nervous and tired and most of all, guilty. He swallowed hard, taking a step towards John.

“Roger! I told you not to come here! He’s not ready!” Freddie hissed, ready to stomp up to Roger and wallop him over the head with whatever he could fine.

John held up a hand to Freddie, signaling that this was okay. It wasn’t how he planned to leave the rehab facility, but he wasn’t upset by it either.

For those two months, Freddie wouldn’t let Roger step a single toe inside the center, which John did appreciate. He needed time to recoup from that hellish exit he had with Roger. But he did miss him. And he did wonder how he was doing and coping with all of this.

Now he got to know.

John took a few tentative steps towards Roger, who’s eyes lit up the closer he got. Once they were face to face, they just looked at each other, unsure of what to feel, say or do. It felt awkward but also like a homecoming. John bit his lip.

“Uh, J-John. You look fantastic. Healthy. G-Gorgeous,” Roger stuttered, his grip on the flower stems tight.

John wrinkled his nose at the last compliment, shaking his head. Too soon.

“Right, sorry,” Roger said, face flushing. “I just came here to say that I’m proud of you. You’ve done an excellent job. And uh, I’d like to apologize. For destroying your trust the way I did. For taking advantage of your love. For hurting you deeply,” Roger rocked back on his heels. “I want you to know that I’ll do whatever you like me to do. Sell the house. Leave you alone f-forever. Try again. Whatever. Um, just know that I miss you. Lots,” he finished, presenting John with the flowers.

John took them, his heart and brain a mess. He took a moment to smell them. He was never too enamored by flowers, but these did smell amazing. Looked pretty too.

He mumbled a quiet thank you for them, stopping to think of how to reply. He wanted to tell Roger so much, but he knew he couldn’t without jeopardizing his stability. He took in a deep breath, looking up at the sky.

“I’m clean now, Roger. Clean from everything…including you. I miss you. A lot. So much more than anyone could believe. But I don’t know if it’s the addict in me missing you or if it’s me missing you. You…need to give me time to figure that out,” John looked at Roger, wanting nothing more than to jump into his arms and kiss him. “I need time. But I’ll call you. I pr- I’ll try.”

Roger nodded, a little smile on his face. He mouthed, _Thank you_ , before walking off. That’s all he needed to hear.

With Roger out of sight, John turned to Freddie, mentally exhausted from the encounter. “Take me home, please,” he said, walking into Freddie, who had his arms already open for him.

“Of course, Deacy. You did fantastic. Let’s go home now.”

John melted into Freddie’s hug, letting himself be led to the car.

Rehab was over but the hardest part was yet to come. Ignoring the urges to go back to your old ways.

John slept the whole ride to Garden Lodge.

♚

John yawned, rubbing his eyes as he leaned against the balcony railing. The warm morning sun set his skin aglow, making him feel nice and toasty.

He looked over the garden, admiring the green manicured grass, the tall hedges with flowers blooming in them. The backyard and the house as a whole were so lovely. But it was time to move on to new and better things.

That was John’s goal since coming back to the real world. Leaving anything behind that made him feel less than content. He cut out less than stellar friends. Stopped visiting places with seedy parts to it. And now, he was moving out of this house. It had served its purpose. And now it was time to move elsewhere. Somewhere with new adventures to find and new memories to make.

John shivered when a pair of arms snaked their way around his waist.

“Babe, we’ve got all day to pack. Come back to bed,” Roger said, snuggling the back of John's neck sleepily.

John wiggled his rump and smiled. “I know, I know. I’m just excited is all,” he said, his mind already on the new place. It was somewhere John preferred. A ways from the city, in a more rural area. Their neighbors even had sheep, which both Roger and John were delighted about.

“Come be excited in bed with me then,” Roger mumbled, trying to pull John back into bed. John didn’t fight it, letting himself get pulled back under the sheets with his lover.

Roger cuddled up to him, grabbing his hand even with his eyes barely open. He kissed each knuckle, paying special attention to his index finger with a ring on it. It was gold and studded in diamonds. Handpicked by the two on their first trip to Italy after John came back home to Roger.

He opened up John’s hand, kissing the palm. John hummed happily, his own eyes falling shut.

“I love you,” Roger murmured into the pink skin, pressing it to his cheek with a smile.

“I love you, too,” John said, pressing their foreheads together, letting out a soft and relaxed sigh.

For the first time in his life, John felt like he had his two feet on the ground.

He was floating free on the winds of drug induced euphoria.

Nor was he pushed down, suffocating on the thing that was supposed to be love but wasn’t.

He was finally where he always should have been.

He pressed his lips to Roger’s and dozed off, feeling good. Feeling so so good.


End file.
